


pretend I'm a shelter for heartaches that don't have a home

by maximoffs



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Banter, M/M, Post-Canon, and sometimes being president of an outlaw motorcycle club has its perks, background Tig/Venus, canon-typical banter and behavior, literally just hooking up as a means of coping, sometimes friendship can mean brotherhood AND fucking, the slightest hint of Wendy/Nero, tough biker dudes share a single moment of tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24923539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximoffs/pseuds/maximoffs
Summary: “What are you doing, Tiggy?” he asks. It’s barely audible. Instead of pushing him away, Chibs leans back in, pressing their foreheads together. “What are you doing?”“Being your VP,” Tig says.
Relationships: Chibs Telford/Tig Trager
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	pretend I'm a shelter for heartaches that don't have a home

**Author's Note:**

> i re-binged soa in a span of like, 2 weeks, and had to get this out of my system. it's mainly banter. i love these idiots! i always will!

After they find out, they steer clear of Scoops for a few days. All of them. It’s unplanned and simultaneous, but: there are personal demons that need to be dealt with, and closeted skeletons to air out, and hearts too taut to break out in the open.

On a farm in Norco, two little boys see horses for the first time. The big one holds the little one’s hand in his stroller. The big one has a secret power; he holds it in his secret ring.

A couple of ex-junkies watch these little boys shovel dirt into all of the absences in their souls, and pack them in with mud. An earth patch, instead of leather. When the golden hour hits Nero can see the transformation in Wendy’s hair and skin; she is a woman alight. A woman who has crawled her way out of the grave, breaking nails and skin to come back home. A mother. When she takes his hand and leads him inside Nero knows, finally, that they are going to be alright.

In an auto repair shop in Charming, an ex-con sits silently at the table, remembering his best friend. There’s an old photograph of her and JT he has found; he tacks it on the bulletin board, over an anonymous, naked woman. He gets back to work with his ruined hands.

***

Scoops shuts its doors for a week, partly out of respect for their fallen leader and partly because no one feels stable enough to sell lemon drops to children. They have done and seen and survived terrible things— all of them. They have sidestepped death and when they go to sleep at night it is underneath the blood of the people they’ve killed, guilty and innocent alike. Losing Jax is the nail on a coffin they’ve been building for a long, long time. Losing Jax ensures that no one feels stable enough for anything.

Chibs is the first to show.

He doesn’t make calls. He doesn’t expect the others to come— not yet— but he shows up, and he sits at the head of that big, heavy table, and he sees how that gavel fits into his hand. It feels more like a chain than anything else, so he puts it back down, and tries again. His mouth tastes like lead. He has no option but to try again.

It doesn’t surprise him, some days later, when Tig is the next to walk in. He looks exhausted and gaunt, the way he did after Dawn. Venus must be at her wits end, trying to feed him, trying to get him to talk. It’s their first big event, as a couple. Chibs makes a mental note to send her a bouquet with a handwritten card. Saint Venus. The patron saint of broken bikers.

For himself, Althea is out of the picture— probably the best for the both of them. She was right. They are both criminals, but she gets paid by the government and he does not.

“Hey,” Tig says, blandly. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, mate. Always good to hear your bullshite first thing in the morning.”

“Uh, it’s past three, brother.” Tig takes a seat next to him— _his_ seat, now— so that they are two men sitting beside one another in a big, empty room. “How long have you been here?”

Chibs doesn’t reply right away. He looks out in front of him. “I don’t know,” he says, finally, to the gavel. “Got here about nine.”

“ _Nine?_ Like, nine in the morning— that nine?”

“I can’t tell if you’re going to be more or less surprised if I say nine last night.”

Tig stares at him. Chibs can feel the gaze from his peripheral, eyes blue, sharp enough to deepen the scars on his face.

“How’d you know I’d be here?”

“I knew,” Tig says, quietly. Chibs hates it when he gets quiet like that; it sounds like he’s speaking through marbles in his mouth. It makes him want to slap Tig across the face and shout _Stop Mumbling_. That Catholic school upbringing. It’ll fuck any man up.

“We’ve got work to do,” Tig says.

“I know.”

“The club needs its leader.”

“Well that wasn’t supposed to be me, was it?” Chibs snaps, slapping his palms down on the table. To Tig’s credit, he does not flinch. “It was supposed to be Jax. It was supposed to be Bobby.”

“I know,” Tig says, gently. He puts a hand on Chibs’ forearm. “But it’s you, brother. You’ve got this.”

Chibs grunts, looking away. He doesn’t have the energy for this conversation. He doesn’t want to muster it up— not when the wound is still so fresh. Fortunately, and unsurprisingly in character, Tig manages to steer the mood into completely uncharted territory by abruptly standing out of his chair (it’s ungraceful— the legs scrape the hardwood of the floors, making Chibs cringe), throwing a leg over Chibs’, and plopping himself right now on his lap, face to face.

“What,” Chibs says, too surprised to be properly irritated.

“I want you to relax,” Tig says, voice still soft.

“How do you expect me to do that with your dumb ass on top of me.”

“Easy,” Tig says. He brushes his lips against Chibs’, tentatively, as if waiting for a Ka-Bar in the gut. It doesn’t come, and Tig pushes forward; he kisses him for real. When he pulls back, Chibs looks like he’s aged fifty years; he looks resigned.

“What are you doing, Tiggy?” he asks. It’s barely audible. Instead of pushing him away, Chibs leans back in, pressing their foreheads together. “What are you doing?”

“Being your VP,” Tig says.

“Think you’ve got a strange idea of what the position entails.”

“The position entails doing whatever I need to do to support you.”

“And you think this is it?”

“I _know_ this is it,” Tig says, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. “Now that you and the sheriff have called it quits.”

“Yeah? What’s going on with you and Venus?”

“Aw man,” Tig says, getting comfortable in his lap. His expression has a sudden brightness in it; something Chibs did not think he’d ever see again. It’s an immense relief. Tig is still— has always been— a romantic at heart. “That’s my old lady. That’s my big love, you know?”

“And you don’t think, by chance, that she might have a problem with the situation you’ve just found yourself in?”

“What, this?” He wriggles a little.

“Aye,” Chibs says, only partially exasperated.

“Nah, man. I’m telling you— Venus is the love of my life. I’m gonna marry her,” Tigs says, earnestly. He has his arms around Chibs’ neck now, loosely, casual. “But you? You’re my brother.”

“Oof,” Chibs says, letting his head drop back on the back of his chair. “Nothing you’re saying is making this better.”

Tig grins his horrible, shit-eating grin, and leans in to nose at Chibs’ cheek. “Would that weird you out? If we were really related.”

A pause. Then: “Yeah.” One sound, barely a word. As if to say: _you are so fucking stupid_.

Tig shrugs. “Wouldn’t bother me,” he says.

“I know, you freak of nature.”

“You want me to stop?”

“No, I want to see where this is going.”

Tig makes a face, like Chibs has just insulted him somehow. Like he’s being purposefully ignorant. “It’s going toward your dick in my mouth, stupid. Are you even paying attention to me?”

“It is,” Chibs says, taking Tig’s face in his hands, “impossible not to pay attention to you right now.”

“‘Cause you’re so turned on?”

“That’s _your_ hard-on, not mine.”

“Oh,” Tig says, thoughtfully. “So it is.”

Chibs, somehow, suppresses an eyeroll; he pulls Tigs face toward him instead. Kisses him. Kisses him hard. To his immeasurably pleasant surprise, this seems to shut Tig up— finally. Tig kisses back with the enthusiasm of a man who has been preparing for this situation for years; and it would honestly not surprise Chibs if that were the case. That’s the nice thing with Tig. Nothing about him is surprising anymore.

He pushes Tigs’ mouth open and holds him tighter, fingers curling into his hair.

“You been drinking?” he asks, gruffly, against him.

Tig hums in response.

“Hey,” Chibs says, pushing away. “I need to know how fucked up you are.”

“Did you see me stumble on my way in?” Tig asks, looking mildly annoyed. “Am I slurring my words?”

Chibs watches him.

“I’m fine,” Tig continues. “You wanna do this or not?”

“Mm.”

“What was that?”

“You’re the one delaying, brother.”

Tig squints at him. “What?”

Chibs can’t help but smirk. “Get on your knees, Tiggy.”

***

When he’s finished, Chibs pulls Tig off slowly, back in his lap, savoring his stilted breaths against his neck. Tig slumps back into his arms for a moment and is so quiet that something ice cold takes hold of Chibs, briefly, wondering whether they’ve crossed a line they can never uncross. It’s gone the moment Tig straightens up and grins.

“What?” Chibs asks, frowning.

“Nothing, man. There was just a moment there when I didn’t know if you were going to punch me or kiss me.”

“Could have gone either way,” Chibs says, nodding sagely.

“But it went the gay way,” Tig says, and it’s obvious he’s stifling a laugh.

“Get _off_.”

“Just did. Wanna go again? Give me a few minutes, maybe we can make it past second base this time.”

“No,” Chibs says. Firmly. But when he meets Tig’s eyes, he can’t help but smile. “Maybe later.”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re good.”

“You know I’m morally opposed to that, Chibs. You know that, right?”

“A man can dream,” Chibs says with a lazy shrug. “Now find us a bottle of bourbon. We’ve got work to do.”


End file.
